


Sherlock Holmes: A Study In Romance

by MizJoely



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 15:20:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1309630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike Stamford has hired a new pathologist and wants Sherlock Holmes to ask a few questions of Dr. M. Hooper. Fluffy romantic crossover between BBC's "Sherlock" and the RDJ "Sherlock Holmes" films. Set after "Game of Shadows."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Inauspicious Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> From the online biography of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle:
> 
> …Conan Doyle wrote a play about Sherlock Holmes...The very successful American actor William Gillette having read the script, asked for permission to revise it. Conan Doyle agreed, and when the actor asked permission to alter the Holmes persona, he replied, "You may marry him, murder him, or do anything you like to him."
> 
> This is me doing anything I like to him – marrying him but not murdering him. The character of Molly Hooper is temporarily borrowed from BBC’s “Sherlock” and the other characters are temporarily borrowed from the wonderful Robert Downey, Jr. & Jude Law “Sherlock Holmes” movies. In this universe, it is presumed that Irene Adler did, indeed, die at the hands of Professor Moriarty.

**From the private journals of Dr. John H. Watson**

The first meeting between my good friend Sherlock Holmes and the woman who would become his wife was, to say the least, not an auspicious one.

I had stopped by Baker Street to announce the happy news that my dear wife, Mary, was expecting our first child in six months’ time, only to discover Holmes clattering down the stairs from his flat, struggling to adjust his cravat whilst simultaneously stuffing his unlit pipe into his coat pocket. "Ah, Watson, just the man! Come along, we don't want to be late!"

"Late for what, Holmes?" I called out as I turned and exited the building, pulling the door closed behind me.

As always, a Hansom cab appeared just as Holmes stretched out his hand, and soon we two were ensconced in the stuffy interior, on our way to St. Bartholomew's Hospital, where we were apparently to interview the newest pathologist on staff, one Dr. M. Hooper.

"Stamford sent me a message," Holmes explained when I breathlessly demanded to know why we were going to that esteemed hospital. "He’s asked me to evaluate this new fellow’s skills and give my opinion as to his suitability for the work. Your opinion will be of some small value as well," he added, directing a sly grin in my direction.

I ignored the gibe, having grown used to his manner in the many years we'd known one another, and concentrated on the gist of his statement. "A new pathologist, eh? Surely he's hired pathologists in years past; why does he require your opinion of this one in particular?"

Holmes shrugged, pulling out his pipe and fussing over it. "Isn't it obvious, Watson?" he asked after several puffs of noxious smoke had thickened the air around us. 

I couldn't help the sigh of annoyance that escaped my lips; to Holmes, everything was 'obvious'. I gave a pointed cough and waved my hand about to clear the air, with no success. "No, Holmes, it most certainly is not," I replied firmly. "Please, spell it out for me."

He glanced at me, huffed out an annoyed sigh of his own, and deigned to respond. "Stamford clearly has some uncertainties regarding this new hire, and wishes me to help ascertain if he's made an error in bringing this new man on staff. The message arrived shortly after this morning’s papers would have been read by the good doctor, who is as much a creature of habit as you are in the mornings, and today’s headlines should explain the rest.”

A bomb had exploded at meeting hall where a well-known group of suffragettes were about to gather. The newspapers had delighted in describing the anxiety and distress suffered by the ladies, none of whom had thankfully entered the building as of yet. The more liberal newspapers had decried the act while at the same time gleefully pointing out that the building was actually owned by a member of the House of Lords, one who was most vociferous against women’s rights. “You believe Stamford is concerned that this new employee is somehow connected to the bombing?” I asked, puzzling it out as best I could.

Holmes beamed at me as though I were a prize pupil. “Well done, Watson! I see my methods have finally rubbed off on you! Yes, Stamford’s concerns were made quite clear in his message.” Clenching his pipe between his teeth, he reached into his jacket pocket and whipped out the piece of paper in question, handing it to me to read.

“Come by St. Bart’s this morning if convenient on a matter of some urgency. I have some concerns regarding our newest pathologist, Dr. M. Hooper, that I wish to discuss with you after you have had the opportunity to perform a skills evaluation and perhaps an interview. Yours, Dr. M. Stamford,” I read aloud.

“Clearly he has had second thoughts and hopes that I can discover some reason to revoke the offer of employment." Holmes’ eyes were gleeful as he gazed at his steepled fingers, raised to his lips in a familiar manner, indicating that his remarkable brain was already hard at work on the matter. "As New Scotland Yard has had no interesting cases to present me of late, I agreed to share my expertise, although it hardly matters one way or the other if the fellow turns out to be an ill-advised hire."

"Holmes!" I protested, aghast at his callous indifference to the possibility that he might be about to ruin some poor, unsuspecting man's life. "Surely it would be preferable if you were to discover that Stamford has instead found his new employee to be a perfectly respectable physician with no connection to the bombing!"

Holmes shrugged indifferently. "Either way, as I said, it makes no difference in the end. It is simply a small puzzle to be worked out, undoubtedly in less time than this cab ride shall take. Now do be quiet, Watson, I wish to think more on the matter." And he closed his eyes, resting his head on the back of the cab.

I recognized the signs; further attempts at either protest or genial conversation would be ignored equally, or else met with sharp words meant to quell any attempt at speech. I therefore did as he requested, albeit unwillingly, and the remainder of the ride was spent in silence.

oOo

Upon our arrival at St. Bartholomew's, or St. Bart’s as Stamford had so whimsically abbreviated it in his message, we were met by the man himself, who it appeared had been most anxious to greet Holmes personally before sending him to the basement morgue where the new pathologist awaited him. He greeted me effusively as well, and congratulated me when I belatedly remembered that I had originally gone to Baker Street to share the good news regarding my wife's pregnancy. I had a moment of discomfort in knowing that I had actually forgotten my excitement over the matter in light of Holmes’ enthusiasm for this very visit, but set it aside, knowing that my darling Mary would certainly forgive me for getting so caught up in the possibility of denouncing an anarchist – or, more agreeably, confirming a man’s innocence.

Holmes of course ignored the announcement, concentrating instead on deducing things about Stamford. "Ah, you were so agitated about this morning’s newspaper accounts of the bombing that you were unable to break your fast until a few minutes ago, and left your home in too much of a hurry to allow your wife to fuss over your appearance as she usually does.” He followed that statement up by brushing some crumbs from Stamford’s jacket and straightening his tie, his eyes flickering toward the stout man’s ink-stained fingers before once again meeting his gaze. “I can see that you are quite concerned that this new pathologist is connected to the bombings," he announced as he started down the corridor leading to the stairs. "You feel you've made an error in hiring him, and seek my expertise in either confirming this or, as you would much rather hear, eliminating your suspicions."

Stamford gave me a bemused glance before hurrying to follow Holmes’ energetic strides. I also hurried my steps, interested to hear Stamford's response as it had been on my mind as well. "It's not that I'm worried Dr. Hooper will be a danger to the hospital; quite the contrary, Holmes. I'm concerned that others will perceive Dr. Hooper as...well, you'll soon see," he concluded in an indeterminate manner as Holmes bounded down the stairs. 

I paused when Stamford did, giving him a curious look. He merely shook his head and gestured for me to accompany my over-enthusiastic friend. "You'll see what I mean, Dr. Watson. I look forward to discussing the matter with the two of you when Holmes has concluded the interview, and I’ll wait for you in my office.” He hesitated, then added: “Just...please do your best to keep him from saying anything too harsh, if you can."

With that enigmatic statement, he turned and retraced his steps, leaving me to follow Holmes, my mind buzzing with questions and half-formed theories as to why our old friend was behaving so oddly. I believed him when he said he felt Dr. Hooper was no danger to the hospital, but if he wasn't concerned about the man's political leanings or connection to the bombings, then what, exactly, could the problem be? 

The answer to every question I had was answered as soon as I reached Holmes' side. He thrust open the door to the morgue, and was rewarded for his impulsive efforts – the man never did remember that he should first knock when entering a room – by the sound of a dismayed shout and a loud crash as the ladder that had been leaning against the wall fell to the floor.

A dismayed shout which my confused mind quickly recognized as being distinctly feminine in nature. This fact was confirmed by the sight of the woman Holmes had caught in his arms as she fell. She was a petite, auburn-haired, elfin featured young lady, wearing a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that had slid down her nose, giving her a rather endearing air of scholarly dishevelment. Her arms were loosely entwined around Holmes' shoulders, and he held her easily, as if she weighed little more than the air through which she'd fallen.

As he gazed down at her, I saw an expression on Holmes' face that I'd only ever seen directed at one other woman, the late Irene Adler; a certain softness coupled with a keen interest. The woman in his arms wore an expression of dazed interest that very much matched his own, and I felt a smile spread across my lips at the sight.

"Well," Holmes said after he and the young lady had spent a long moment gazing at one another, "although the circumstances are not ideal, I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Dr. Hooper."


	2. Interactions of a Scientific Nature

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reviewing and kudosing this story. Enjoy part two!

I must admit that I gaped a bit when Holmes identified the young lady in his arms as Dr. Hooper; I had taken her for a nurse or perhaps a secretary sent down to the morgue laboratory to fetch something for one of the doctors or hospital administrators. I waited for Holmes to replace the young woman on her feet, but the moment stretched out and I felt compelled to clear my throat in the hopes of breaking whatever silent rapport the two were currently sharing as they gazed into one another’s eyes in a manner closely resembling that of lovers reunited rather than strangers making one another’s acquaintance.

Dr. Hooper started a bit and flashed me a guilty look before returning her gaze to that of my friend. I noted that her eyes appeared to be a shade of brown quite similar to his own, and her hair was a becoming shade of chestnut brown that suited her fair complexion. “I believe I’ve recovered enough to be able to stand on my feet, Mr. Holmes,” she said as she returned her gaze to his, sounding more than a bit breathless.

As he set her on her feet, she said, “May I ask why you felt it necessary to barge into my laboratory like this, Mr. Holmes?” Then she gave a small gasp, turning to face me as if just remembering my presence in the doorway. She turned and held out her hand after shoving her glasses back up her nose. “Hullo, I’m Dr. Molly Hooper. You must be Dr. Watson?”

I returned her smile and took her dainty hand in mine, unsurprised by the firmness of her grip. She was no simpering miss, after all. “Yes, very pleased to meet you, Dr. Hooper,” I responded to her query. “I understand you are new to the pathology department?”

She nodded and smiled. “Yes, I’ve only been working here for a week, and I’m very grateful to Dr. Stamford for hiring me…” Her voice trailed off and a frown marred her features as she turned her attention back to Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes, did Dr. Stamford ask you to come here today?”

My eyebrows rose in an expression of surprise as I exchanged glances with Holmes, who seemed as surprised by the shrewd question that had just been asked as I was. Molly folded her arms across her chest, her frown deepening as she repeated her question in a challenging manner. “Well, Mr. Holmes? Did he?”

He studied her as if she’d suddenly morphed from a quaint curiosity into an intriguing scientific discovery. “As a matter of fact, Dr. Hooper, he did,” he finally confirmed. “May I ask why you suspected that, rather than assume the obvious, that my presence here was due to a case?”

Her posture remained defensive, as was her voice as she responded, “I read the newspapers, Mr. Holmes, I’m aware of the horrible bombing that occurred last night, and that the targets were suffragettes. It isn’t a great deductive leap for me to understand that Dr. Stamford is concerned about my presence here attracting equally horrific attention. I am one of the first female medical professionals St. Bartholomew’s has hired outside of the nursing staff, after all.”

She sounded proud of her accomplishment, and justifiably so. Women had only been allowed to study medicine since the founding of the London School of Medicine for Women in 1874, a mere twenty-five years previous. Most graduates went into fields traditionally considered the realm of the female, such as obstetrics, so for her to have entered into pathology – and to have obtained a position as a prestigious institution such as St. Bartholomew’s – meant her credentials must be impressive indeed.

Holmes studied her a moment longer before breaking into a delighted grin and turning to face me. “Watson, I do believe it will be a pleasure rather than the chore I originally feared to weigh Dr. Hooper’s potential liabilities for Stamford!” With that rather remarkable – not to say insulting – statement, he turned to the diminutive pathologist and offered his arm, along with one of the charming smiles he so seldom mustered. “Allow me to escort you to Stamford’s office, Dr. Hooper, where we can conduct our interview in relative privacy.”

She deliberately ignored the proffered arm, folding her own across her chest and lifting her chin in an attitude that conveyed both stubbornness and disdain in equal measures. “There is more than adequate privacy here, Mr. Holmes,” she said coolly. “No one is likely to disturb us, unless you’re worried that Mr. Patterson will suddenly spring to life and return to the killing spree his accidental drowning brought an end to?”

That rather remarkable statement seemed to bring Holmes up short; in the process of scowling at her for her cold refusal, his expression changed to one of intrigue by the time she finished speaking. Dr. Hooper appeared not to miss a single nuance, focused as she was on his face. A smile curled her lips, brightening her expression as she launched into a description of the injuries to the body lying beneath a sheet at the far end of the room. 

It was a bit unnerving, seeing so delicate a creature speaking so frankly of such matters as bodily gases and bloating and how repeated usage of a garrote left tell-tale ligature marks on the fingers of a habitual user of that particular weapon, but Holmes appeared quite comfortable speaking to her of such matters, and I kept my opinions entirely to myself as I observed the two of them. 

She seemed a likable, intelligent young lady, very pretty even with her hair swept up into a no-nonsense bun and wearing a plain gray skirt topped with a simple white blouse. Having never witnessed the phenomena of my good friend being thus distracted by any woman other than the late Irene Adler, I decided it was best if I were to stand back and watch to see what would unfold next. 

Holmes had bounded over to the covered corpse while Dr. Hooper spoke, reaching out as if to expose the body but then, most remarkably to my mind, hesitating and turning toward her as if asking her permission. She smiled and nodded, and I entered the room to join them, feeling very much the intruder as their two heads bent down and Dr. Hooper began murmuring her findings to my friend.

“The Shropshire Slasher,” I heard him announce with a great deal of relish as she finally fell silent. I made my careful way toward them, pausing only to right the stepladder Holmes had knocked over when he opened the door. Whether he was giving me the identity of the unfortunate on the table or simply pronouncing the name aloud for his own satisfaction was of no consequence, although I continued to be amused by the childlike joy he was currently exuding, as if Dr. Hooper had presented him with one puzzle which he’d thought solved…only to present him with a further conundrum. Or, perhaps, a Christmas present, I amended silently as Holmes’ enthusiasm continued to grow. 

“Yes, you’re quite right, Dr. Hooper, the signs are obvious. Yet you hesitate to present them,” he added, his tone abruptly sobering. “Your conclusions are correct, the methodology employed impeccable, and yet still you wait for Dr. Stamford to confirm the facts you’ve unearthed before contacting New Scotland Yard and apprising them of your findings. Why is that? Is it because you do not wish to draw attention to yourself at this moment, that your concerns for your professional reputation are currently being outweighed by your desire not draw attention to your position and thus possibly negatively impact the hospital? An admirable character trait, I suppose, if your ultimate goal is to always fade into the woodwork, but hard an auspicious way to launch the successful medical career you are clearly destined for!”

I withheld a groan, although I could feel my teeth grinding; trust Holmes to both compliment and insult a lady at the same instance. Before I could remonstrate with him, however, Dr. Hooper raised her head and met his gaze steadily, glaring as angrily as I’d ever seen Holmes himself manage when his own expertise was put to the question. “Mr. Holmes,” she bit out, her hands balling into tiny fists that nonetheless appeared more than capable of laying my friend low should she choose to berate him physically as well as verbally, “I may be, as you say, destined for a brilliant medical career, but I am also mindful of how things work in the real world, the world the rest of us are forced to live in. While you are off breaking the rules and having adventures, some of us must work quietly behind the scenes, allowing others credit if necessary in order to maintain the level of independence we’ve fought so hard to gain!”

Holmes bestowed upon her a look of absolute delight, and I was as astounded as the petite woman in front of him when he reached out, clapped his hands to her upper arms, and bestowed an enthusiastic kiss to her cheek. “Dr. Molly Hooper, I will be delighted to inform Dr. Stamford that, in spite of your suffragist proclivities, that he would be a fool ten times over to dismiss you from your post. I see that you require no man to fight your battles for you, and wish you well in your future endeavors!”

With that, he stepped back, belatedly removed his hat, and gave a deep sweeping bow with not the slightest hint of mockery to it. Then he turned, with a “Come, Watson! I’m sure your Mary is wondering why your quick visit to my flat has taken so long!” and swept out the door. 

Dr. Hooper was gaping after him, her expression one of mingled shock and curiosity. I offered her my hand and said my good-byes, thanking her for her time and congratulating her on identifying the criminal that had terrified so many people, first in his home county and then here in London.

As I turned to leave, however, I was brought up short as Holmes popped his head back into the room and called out, “Dinner at 8:00, Dr. Hooper, if you would be so kind. Shall I retrieve you at your boarding house on Montague Street or would you prefer I meet you here? I’m certain your landlady will attend your cat as she usually does when you have to work late.”

He gazed at her expectantly, and after a moment spent simply staring at him, she stuttered out a response that sounded very much as if she were attempting to decline his invitation – if invitation such could be termed. Once again I privately vowed to speak to Holmes at the first convenient moment about his social skills or lack thereof, when Dr. Hooper astounded me yet again by falling silent, tilting her head to one side, then finally smiling and agreeing that it would be easier if Holmes were to meet her at the end of her shift as her home was no doubt further away than St. Bartholomew’s from wherever he intended the two of them to dine.

He offered her a sharp nod of the head, then glanced at me and barked out, “Come along, Watson! Stamford is waiting for us!” Then he disappeared once again from the doorway, leaving me to follow, as usual, in his overly enthusiastic wake.

My mind was admittedly reeling as I hurried to catch up with him. “Holmes!” I called out as I finally reached his side, at the foot of the stairs leading up to the more salubrious environs of the hospital. “Would you mind explaining just what happened in there?” I nodded my head toward the door to the morgue laboratory.

He gave me a puzzled look as he began taking the stairs two at a time as was his wont when overly enthused about something – generally a case, although there appeared to be no such enticement here. “Dr. Hooper discovered that the body brought in this morning belongs to that of the infamous Shropshire Slasher, I concurred, and will duly report her findings to Lestrade and his group of idiots at New Scotland Yard, giving full credit to Dr. Hooper, of course, as is her due. It is the least I can do, after she afforded me so refreshing and unexpected an afternoon!” 

In any other man I would characterize his words and actions, coupled with his obvious enjoyment, as an indication of romantic interest. However, this was Holmes, and my only thought was that somehow he thought it best to continue his investigation and analysis of Dr. Hooper outside the hospital. However, when I expressed that opinion, he once again gave me a puzzled look and said, “Don’t be ridiculous, Watson; I’m about to tell Stamford what a prize she is in terms of her value to the hospital. Dinner is simply…”

His voice trailed off and a faraway look came into his eyes as we reached the top of the stairs. He paused there, one hand tapping a rapid tattoo against the brass bannister as he appeared to consider his next words. I waited with nearly breathless anticipation to hear what he would say next, and was not disappointed when he finally mumbled, “She is an…intriguing woman, isn’t she, Watson? Worth getting to know better in a social setting?”

I gave a sober nod in agreement, although internally I fear I was smiling broadly, barely able to contain my glee at the thought of Sherlock Holmes willingly escorting an attractive young woman to dinner, with no actual case involved. Mary would be thrilled, and I busied myself arranging my impressions of the afternoon’s events in my mind as we reached Stamford’s office.

Mary would be very, very pleased indeed, especially if the evening went well.


	3. An Explosive Situation

In retrospect, I should have foreseen the events that occurred shortly after our arrival in Mike Stamford’s well-appointed private office, deductive genius or not. However, since Holmes also failed to predict the events that would so disrupt our lives for the following months, I can be forgiven for failing to do so as well.

We had just settled in to discuss Dr. Hooper’s situation, with Holmes waxing near poetic in his praise of the woman’s forensic skills (oh, Mary would be thrilled, no doubt about it, having long since believed my friend needed to find the right woman to help settle some of his more, er, exuberant excesses) and assuring Stamford that she posed no threat to the hospital when it happened. A muffled thump and dull roar that my shocked ears quickly translated into the sounds of a distant explosion.

When the shock of the event released me from its grasp, I arose from my seat to find that Holmes had already vacated the room. Stamford and I hurried after him, both instinctively heading for the stairs leading down to the basement level where the morgue and associated laboratory were located.

As we both feared and anticipated, the laboratory where Holmes and I had left Dr. Hooper a scant half-hour earlier was the target of the explosion. I feared we would find the mangled remains of the young woman amongst the debris, and was relieved to find her alive – albeit unconscious – and cradled once again in Holmes’ arms as he emerged from the smoking ruin of a room. “She discovered the explosive device and had the good sense to place it into the sink, covering it with water, and was on her way out when it went off,” Holmes explained as he gently lowered her to the corridor floor to allow me to examine her. 

She was bleeding from numerous cuts but thankfully no debris appeared to have lodged in her flesh, nor did a cursory examination reveal any signs of broken bones or injuries to her spine, although her head injury was worrisome. I was forcefully reminded of a previous explosion, one that had nearly taken my life and that of Holmes, but pushed aside such unpleasant memories, reminding myself that I had a patient to attend to. “It appears when she turned to leave she had the foresight to snatch up a body bag and use it to protect herself. Clever girl,” Sherlock murmured, looking down at her with a half-smile on his lips that I would be sure to quiz him over.

Later. “Stamford, we’ll need a gurney for Dr. Hooper,” I began, but Holmes shook his head.

“No need, I’ll carry her,” he said, and proceeded to lift her slight form into his arms again. There was no arguing with the stubborn set of his chin or the determined glint in his eyes, so I didn’t bother, merely rose to my feet and hurried after him, with Stamford leading the way. He breathlessly informed us that there was no one else on duty at this time, which was a relief as I had not been looking forward to searching the wreckage for others less fortunate than Dr. Hooper.

She regained consciousness as we hurried up the stairs; I heard Holmes murmuring what sounded suspiciously like reassurances to her when I caught up to them. Stamford had opted to remain behind and assist the emergency responders and concerned onlookers who had been disturbed by the blast, directing his staff in their endeavors to confirm that no other persons had been in the basement at the time. Although I had no official connection to St. Bartholomew’s, I received no protests when I appropriated an empty operating theater and rather peremptorily demanded the assistance of one of the nurses who had come to see what the commotion was about.

Dr. Hooper, in common with every other physician I have ever treated, insisted that she was fine and needed only to ‘clear her head’. She was far more concerned with the state of the pathology lab and the damage that must have been done to the Shropshire Slasher’s corpse than to her own injuries. I expected Holmes to join her in mourning the potential loss of evidence in the case, but he surprised me by brushing aside Dr. Hooper’s concerns and insisting, in gentle but firm tones far from his usual abrupt manner, that she allow me to attend to her.

In the end she suffered only a few gashes that required stitches, and I did not fail to notice that Holmes held her hand the entire time. He caught me stealing glances at their entwined fingers more than once, and each time merely scowled at me as if daring me to comment. I wisely refrained, at least until Dr. Hooper had been admitted – much against her will, and only after her strenuous protests – to be kept under observation overnight. We bid her farewell as one of the St. Bartholomew’s physicians took over her case, commandeering both her injured form and the nurse who had assisted me so ably, but not before I was able to thank the latter and admonish the former to do as her doctor prescribed in order to properly recuperate from her ordeal.

I was astonished to see Holmes drop a quick kiss to her forehead before she was wheeled away on the gurney a young orderly had brought to the operating theater, and cheered at the sight of the pretty blush that spread across her cheeks as she murmured her good-byes. Her expression was wistful as she was removed from our presence, and I hid a smile at the equally wistful expression that crossed Holmes face as she vanished from view.

Before I could comment on his unusual behavior, Holmes sprang to my side, virtually dragging me out of the doors and down the hall to the basement. “Come along, Watson, we must examine the evidence before any more idiots trample through the wreckage.”

That was the Holmes and I knew and, occasionally at least, felt a brotherly love for. His eyes were bright and glittering with what I recognized all too well as detectival fever; he would not rest until he discovered the identity of the bomber (or bombers) and brought them to justice. If his actions seemed a bit more enthusiastic than normal, I recognized that he felt a personal connection to this crime…and I suspected that he was particularly motivated by what I perceived as his genuine attachment to Dr. Hooper.

The thought of my friend forming any sort of a romantic attachment other than to the volatile and, sadly for Holmes, deceased Miss Irene Adler, still struck me as decidedly odd, when I had time to consider the idea. Holmes had always scoffed at romance, had done his very best to dissuade me from my own marriage – and yet, in the end, he had forged not merely a truce with my beloved Mary, but a growing friendship as well. Perhaps the loss of Miss Adler and his newfound affection for my wife had opened a crack in that carefully guarded heart of his, so that when he found himself facing a woman who appeared, in her own way, to be as remarkable as either of those two ladies, he was ready to acknowledge his readiness to form a lasting romantic attachment of his own. One not founded on deceit and the thrill of outwitting one another, but rather a love that could ease some of the profound loneliness I had always sensed in my friend.

But all that, as I said, would come with time and contemplation. At the moment I knew only that Holmes was determined to find the culprits responsible for this and presumably the previous night’s bombings, and merely filed away the remarkable fact that he’d waited until he knew that Dr. Hooper was well and in capable hands before turning his attention to the site of the attack.

I found him clambering over the debris near the far end of the lab, muttering to himself and scowling at the shattered remains of the porcelain sink. “The detonator, Watson, we must find it, it’s the key to this whole thing,” he announced as I made my gingerly way toward him, mindful of the instability of the still-smoking chamber. Stamford had already spoken with Inspector Lestrade, who had been assigned to investigate the bombing, as well as the firemen who had been dispatched, and Holmes and I were cleared to perform our own investigation now that the room had been declared free of any other victims. Aside, of course, from the unfortunate corpse of the late Shropshire Slasher, which hadn’t survived the blast nearly as well as Dr. Hooper. At least the grisly remains had been removed before our return to the scene of the crime.

Lestrade held his men back until Holmes had finished his investigation, a courtesy I do not recall the man extending in the past, but then, it had been many months since I had assisted Holmes on a case and I had no idea of the nature of their relationship at this point in time. After the distasteful matter of the Reichenbach Falls case involving Professor Moriarty, Lestrade had been far more distraught than I would have credited him at Holmes (apparent) death, and I could only conclude that their professional relationship remained cordial in spite of Holmes’ overly dramatic return. It certainly hadn’t hurt things when Lestrade had been given full credit for the apprehension of Moriarty’s right-hand man, the former army colonel Sebastian Moran. That case, in fact, had been shortly after Holmes’ return and the last one I has assisted him with.

Lost in my musings, I was taken off-guard when Holmes uttered a triumphant, “Got it!” and held up a few twisted shards of metal. The elusive detonator, I presumed, and had that presumption confirmed seconds later when Holmes began picking his way toward Lestrade, who held out a small canvas sack into which the items in question were carefully deposited. “Give them to Morse, he’s your best explosives man,” Holmes instructed Lestrade, as if he were the senior inspector and the other man a mere uniformed officer. However, Lestrade merely grimaced at Holmes’ high-handed manner, to which he’d long been accustomed, and shouted for the sergeant that had accompanied him. 

Holmes turned to me, a grim smile on his face as he clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly. “Very well, Watson, I believe it’s time for us to leave the rest of the evidence-gathering to the good men of New Scotland Yard.” He glanced back at Lestrade sharply. “You’ll have Morse contact me as soon as he identifies the bomber?”

Lestrade nodded. “Before I even notify my superiors, Holmes, you have my word on it.”

“Good. We’ll be off then, having a look at the site of yesterday’s bombing. I fully expect Morse to confirm that both events were the work of the same person.” Without pausing for breath, he turned back to me again. “Shall we check on Dr. Hooper before we leave, Watson? Your Mary will want a full report of her status,” he added as I gaped at him.

Then he strode out of the room, once again leaving me to hurry after him, although not until I’d exchanged glances with a very confused looking Inspector Lestrade. “The young lady who was caught in the blast,” I hurriedly explained. “Holmes wishes to, er, question her further, I believe.” Then I left as well, leaving him shaking his head and muttering to himself, a not unfamiliar reaction to Holmes and his caprices.

Speaking of caprices…I was astounded that Holmes was once again delaying his investigation in favor of checking up on Dr. Hooper’s health. Astounded and, I am not ashamed to say, rather pleased to see my friend showing such interest in a young, pretty, intelligent, unattached woman. Who, before this unfortunate incident, had agreed to meet Holmes for dinner. Oh, Mary would be quite cross with me indeed if I neglected to take in this second post-explosion meeting between the two, so I sped up, catching Holmes just as he was in the process of interrogating Dr. Hooper’s attending physician.

I quelled a potential quarrel between the two men when the doctor protested that his patient was sleeping and should not be disturbed. Holmes of course disagreed, but I managed to distract him by reminding him that the best thing he could do for Dr. Hooper at this time was to find the man who had attempted to kill her – if, indeed, that had been his goal, and not merely disruption of her working space.

I chose my words deliberately, knowing Holmes would scoff at me for even theorizing that Dr. Hooper had been collateral damage and not the actual target.

As expected, he rounded on me with a familiar glint in his eye, born of both contempt and frustration. “Don’t be a fool, Watson,” he snapped. “Clearly Dr. Hooper was the target, else the bomb would have been much larger…which,” he concluded abruptly, after peering closely at my face, “you already know.”

By then Dr. Hooper’s physician had slipped away, satisfied that the two of us would not be disturbing his patient after all, a foolish assumption on his part as Holmes immediately turned away from me and entered her room. I followed, quietly remonstrating with him to allow her to sleep, only to discover Holmes had stopped just inside the door.

The low light of the room showed Dr. Hooper’s sleeping face, so much younger looking in repose that she appeared nearly a child, especially with the blankets covering her petite form and her hair loose around her face. The expression on Holmes’ face as he beheld her, however, was far from paternal. Indeed, I have rarely seen him so implacable, so resolute, as he was in that moment. It was as if he was memorizing her features, storing them in his mind in order to better remember what it was he stood to lose if the bomber was not stopped.

I felt those things, that night, and then felt foolish for thinking such sentimental thoughts about a man who had endeavored throughout his life to divest himself of the softer emotions. I once again thought of The Woman, and how her death had affected him, and hoped that Dr. Hooper’s fate would be a kinder one.

“She was the target, Watson,” Sherlock said softly. “Not the lab, and not because she is a suffragette. That bombing last night was the smokescreen, meant to make this attack seem part of a larger pattern.”

Then he turned and pushed past me, out of her room, and as always, I found myself hurrying after him, both perturbed and oddly comforted by Holmes’ statements.

The game, as he would undoubtedly have put it, was on.


	4. The Game Is On

I did not join Holmes as he examined the site of previous night’s attack, but instead hurried home to my wife, to explain to her in detail the extraordinary events of the day. She had heard of the second bombing, which had been the subject of lurid headlines in the afternoon editions of the papers, and had naturally assumed that Holmes and I were somehow involved. “Face it, John,” she chided me as I admitted as much to her upon my arrival at our small but comfortable home, “Sherlock Holmes is a magnet for danger, and you are nearly as bad.” She smiled to show me she wasn’t angry with me, merely stating a long-known fact, then sat and listened as I recounted the events leading up to the attack, focusing on Dr. Hooper and her curious effect on my friend.

Mary gave a soft laugh as I concluded my description of the pair’s first meeting, her eyes widening a bit in surprise as I then revealed Holmes’ dinner invitation. The unfortunate events that followed our departure from Dr. Hooper’s side clouded her blue eyes with sympathetic tears, but the tenderness with which Holmes had vowed to find the culprit brought them streaming down her cheeks. “Oh John,” she said in choked voice, reaching out to lay a trembling hand against my cheek as I knelt before her, “do you think it’s possible he’s finally found the right woman to give his heart to?”

I turned her hand and placed a soft kiss on her palm before answering, “I cannot say, my dear, but only hope and pray that it is so.”

She brought my face up to place an equally tender kiss on my lips, wrinkling her nose as always at the sensation of my mustache upon her upper lip. “Then by all means, John, accompany Sherlock on this case until the culprits have been brought to justice.” She stroked her abdomen and smiled at me. “We can wait for you, John Watson. Now go help your friend. But,” she added, a touch of steel entering her voice as her eyes sternly held mine and her hand tightened on my wrist, “also remind him that you have a wife and soon a child to come home to, and he will answer to me if you end up blown to smithereens. I nearly lost you that way once, and I will not tolerate any repeats of that horrible time.”

I kissed her again, amazed and humbled as always that such an incredible woman had allowed me to be a part of her life. “I will do my very best not to come any closer to explosives than I have to,” I promised her, and her lips curved in a sweet, wry smile as she recognized the careful way in which I’d worded that vow.

Because, after all, this was Sherlock Holmes we were discussing, and who knew what joining him for a case would bring?

oOo

The answer to that question came the very next morning, when I arrived at Baker Street to find an unfortunately common sight: Mrs. Hudson loudly proclaiming that Sherlock Holmes had finally lost his mind.

The two of them were standing toe-to-toe, Mrs. Hudson’s hands nearly wringing one another off her wrists so great was her agitation as she glared up at my former flatmate. Neither seemed to notice my arrival, and I paused in the doorway, attempting to ascertain the reason for this morning’s particular altercation.

Illumination was not long in coming as Mrs. Hudson demanded to know why her tenant felt it would be acceptable for him to move a young, unmarried woman into his lodgings for an unspecified period of time. “Honestly, Mr. Holmes, have you no shame? I won’t have you bringing any of your loose women here, that Miss Adler was bad enough but she never stayed long enough to cause damage to my reputation! I run a respectable home, and I’ve put up with an awful lot over the years, but this will NOT be tolerated!”

I closed the door, rather loudly, I’m afraid, as I realized exactly what Holmes must have proposed. In the brief silence that the noise produced, I stepped forward and placed a comforting hand on Mrs. Hudson’s shoulder. “Now, Mrs. Hudson, the young lady in question is hardly a loose woman,” I said soothingly, whilst shooting Holmes an exasperated glare. “Holmes is merely concerned for her safety, is that not the case? You are speaking of Dr. Hooper, are you not? You wish to bring her here for her own safety?”

Holmes nodded, his own scowl not lightening one bit as he folded his arms across his chest. “Yes, Watson, for once you have accurately deduced the situation unfolding before your eyes. Dr. Hooper’s injuries are not serious enough for her to need to remain in hospital for more than a single day, and I hardly feel her own lodgings – a boardinghouse run by a rather deaf old woman and her bedridden husband – feature adequate security.” He raised his voice as Mrs. Hudson opened her mouth, and spoke over her. “Someone is trying to murder my path… my client,” he corrected himself swiftly. “She is alone in London, with no family to speak of, and no close friends whose living arrangements are any more adequate than her own, especially when it comes to her safety! Mycroft is unfortunately out of the country at the moment or else I would recommend she stay with him, or at least obtain the services of private guards from him. Under these circumstances the only logical solution is for her to stay here, on a temporary basis, until the threat against her has been…”

“She can stay with us,” I cut in loudly. Mrs. Hudson gave me a grateful look and removed herself from beneath my hand, after patting it thankfully with her own. The look she gave Holmes, however, was pure exasperated triumph. “Mary will enjoy the company, Inspector Lestrade can surely recommend some reliable and discreet bodyguards – or your own Baker Street Irregulars can assist if you don’t trust the police to this matter,” I added with a frown. Until we knew who the assailant was and why he appeared to be targeting Dr. Hooper in particular, it might be best to keep her whereabouts to ourselves, a fact which Holmes immediately pointed out to me. I huffed quietly but said nothing; he’d already lost the most important argument and if he needed to feel as if he’d somehow won over myself and Mrs. Hudson by pointing out the need for secrecy, I would allow him his moment of dramatics.

Although, for once in our acquaintanceship, I felt that he wasn’t entirely acting out of vanity or arrogance; his very real concern for Dr. Hooper’s safety seemed to color his every word, his every gesture as he fell into a flurry of action. Mrs. Hudson scurried off to her private room, muttering beneath her breath about how we would be the death of her…and yet I saw her hiding a smile, and knew she rather enjoyed the unpredictability Holmes and I brought to her life.

Holmes shouted for Billy, the young page he employed who also assisted Mrs. Hudson with various household chores. The lad quickly appeared, bounding up the basement stairs with a gleam in his eyes that told me he looked forward to whatever adventure Holmes was about to send him on. He batted not a single eyelash as he was instructed to find Wiggins, the leader of Holmes’ Baker Street Irregulars, and bring him back at once. He flipped the youngster a coin, warned him it was for Wiggins and not himself, and sent him on his way. He dashed off a telegram to Lestrade, bellowed for Billy as he’d promptly forgotten he’d already dispatched the lad, and instead declared we would deliver the missives ourselves. Then he vanished up the stairs, while I slowly followed.

He did not question my presence; although I had sworn off adventuring with him on cases once I was married and installed in my medical practice, he’d either conveniently forgotten that fact (as he so conveniently forgot so many things not to his liking) or else assumed I had Mary’s indulgence in this one circumstance. It was of no consequence, either way, yet it irked me that he simply assumed I was here to assist him, when I could have stopped by for any number of reasons, as I had the night before.

Holmes scribbled out the telegrams he meant to send – one presumably to his brother, the other to Lestrade – when I reached my former lodgings. I seated myself on the sofa and was just making myself comfortable when Holmes sprang from his chair, tucking the missives into his jacket pocket and snatching up his pipe. “Come along, Watson,” he called out, dashing past me and heading for the stairs. “We’ve wasted enough time this morning as you dawdled over your morning tea and fretted over leaving Mary at such a delicate time. I can assure you, she is perfectly safe and will be even after Dr. Hooper has been persuaded to take up temporary residence in your home.” He paused, then added diffidently, “Do be certain to send her my regards when you inform her of the situation, and thank her for me.” He held my eye for a moment, and I nodded, smiling ruefully at how well he could read my concerns.

As we waited for a cab, he explained to me the course of action he’d decided upon for the day; I was to return to my home with Dr. Hooper, whom he rather blithely assumed would simply go with me at his recommendation. I tried to point out that she had only met the pair of us the day before, and under less than ideal circumstances, but he brushed my concerns aside in typical Holmes fashion. “Dr. Hooper is a sensible woman, Watson, she’ll understand the need for this temporary disruption to her life.”

He was distracted by the arrival of a cab, the driver slowing his horse and pulling up to the curb. I followed him inside, feeling an uneasy sense of déjà vu; I only prayed that today’s journey did not end with an explosion. Surely Dr. Hooper’s assailant could not have foreseen her survival and wouldn’t have had time or the opportunity to set up another bomb in her hospital room?

When I voiced my uneasy thoughts aloud, Holmes dismissed them without explanation, unusual for him. Then I saw the tautness of his flesh, the way his fingers tapped impatiently on his knees and how his eyes were resolutely set on the front of the cab, and understood. He was desperately worried for Dr. Hooper’s safety, to the point that it eclipsed even his excitement for the case. Another sign that the young lady had captured his attention – and perhaps the heart he claimed not to possess. I settled back and kept my observations and questions to myself for the remainder of the ride, allowing him the privacy of his no-doubt troublesome thoughts.

oOo

Holmes was utterly taken aback when Dr. Hooper at first adamantly refused to believe that her life was in danger. “Surely the bomber has achieved his mission here,” she argued from her seat across from Mike Stamford’s desk. She’d been released, at her own insistence, far earlier than I would have recommended, and it had been mere luck that we caught her before she’d left her room. Stamford had offered his office as a place for us to discuss the situation, and she’d reluctantly accepted.

That, however, had been the only thing she’d accepted, at least at first. Only Homes’ insistence that by returning to her lodgings she could potentially be putting her landlady and the other tenants in harm’s way caused her to hesitate; sensing that hesitation, he pressed on. “Dr. Watson is a former military man, as you already know, and his wife a sensible, even-tempered woman who will have no issue with you taking up temporary residence in their home. In fact, I would go so far as to presume she will welcome the company, considering the limitations her current condition are placing on her.”

I raised an eyebrow; Mary’s ‘current condition’ was hardly to the point of confinement, but let the statement lay when it appeared to have had some effect on Dr. Hooper’s wavering resolve. “Very well,” she said at last. “But I insist upon at least retrieving some of my belongings and advising my landlady as to my temporary absence.” She emphasized the word ‘temporary’ and held Holmes’ gaze until he nodded agreement to her stipulations. “And on the way, she added, as she rose to her feet, “I would very much like to hear a clear and detailed explanation as to why you have come to the conclusion that I am the target of this bomber, rather than suffragettes in general.”

We parted ways at that point; I to return home and explain the situation to Mary after first delivering Holmes’ telegrams, and the two of them to retrieve Dr. Hooper’s personal effects. She’d borrowed a dress from one of the nurses, to replace her own ruined clothing, and was pressing Holmes to allow her to return it to the other woman before he, in her words, ‘dragged her off’. I chuckled as he balked at making yet another (in his mind) unnecessary detour, but seemed to have resigned himself to returning to Bart’s as he and Dr. Hooper vanished into the cab he’d summoned for the two of them.

When I arrived home, Mary was surprised to see me, but as I explained the situation she merely nodded and agreed that it was the best solution at the moment. She then bustled about, tidying things up and ringing for tea from the cook. It was the maid’s day off, unfortunately, but my Mary had never held herself above doing whatever chores might be necessary, and the imminent arrival of an unexpected guest had her in a frenzy of cleaning that rapidly drove me to my surgery on the floor below.

When Holmes and Dr. Hooper arrived, some hours later, their attitude toward one another could best be characterized as cool on her part and somewhat chagrined on his, leaving me to wonder what had transpired while we had been apart. I resolved to question my friend on this matter, especially when I caught him several times casting longing glances toward Dr. Hooper’s stiff back as she sipped at her tea and chatted amicably with Mary.

Holmes endured the social niceties for as long as he could stand – that is to say, not long at all. He rose abruptly to his feet, the tea in his cup scarcely touched and mine only recently imbibed, and nodded stiffly to the two women. “If you’ll excuse us, Dr. Hooper, Mrs. Watson, we need to be off. I expect there will be answers to my telegrams awaiting us at Baker Street.”

“Be sure to send Billy along to update us,” Mary said, taking another ladylike sip of her tea. Dr. Hooper remained silent, but did likewise, offering me a smile but ignoring Holmes when he made his farewells.

Once we were outside and had secured a Hansom, I turned to Holmes and demanded an explanation. “Well? What have you done to insult the lady?”


	5. Upping the Ante

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously: Once we were outside and had secured a Hansom, I turned to Holmes and demanded an explanation. “Well? What have you done to insult the lady?”

For once Holmes attempted no obfuscation or derailment of my line of inquiry, merely gazing at me blankly before saying, “Nothing that I thought warranted her reaction, Watson, I can assure you!” Then the most extraordinary thing happened; he blushed. Sherlock Holmes blushed the bright red of a schoolboy come face to face with the girl he fancied, and hastily turned his face away.

I gaped at him for a long moment before once again resuming my questions. “Holmes! I must know! What happened?”

He shrugged, still not meeting my gaze. “I informed the good doctor of my belief that the bomber was someone she knew, who was after her personally rather than attempting to sabotage the suffragette movement as a whole.”

Then he launched into the tale, leaving nothing out no matter how poor a picture his words and actions might paint of him, while I sat and listened, stunned and yet moved at the same time.

**Sherlock’s Tale**

Watson, you know me; you know I am far from a sentimental man, and yet from the moment I first laid eyes on Dr. Hooper – or, more accurately, from the moment she first fell into my arms – I have been beset by the most unusual sensations. The nearest I can come to describing it is the way I felt when I was gifted with my first microscope – an absolute sensation that all was right in the world, that I beheld something to which I would grow very much attached.

Ah, I see you are surprised and rather disconcerted by my depiction of Dr. Hooper as what you no doubt perceive as property; perhaps you expected me to wax eloquent about how she reminded me of a certain young American of our acquaintance, who unfortunately is no longer with us, hmm? Well, in response, Watson, all I can say is that I treasure the microscope as an integral part of my everyday life, whereas Miss Adler was more akin to a force of nature; like a hurricane, she blew in and out of my life, leaving chaos and destruction in her wake. Did I enjoy those brief flurries? Yes, I did. I confess it without shame. But when viewing the domestic arrangements of others, yourself and Mrs. Watson included, I have reached an invaluable insight: hurricanes and other forces of nature do not make for a contented household.

Am I waxing too poetic in this matter? Your expression would certainly lead me to that conclusion. However, I also perceive your interest in the current state of my…that is to say, how I…

Blast. _Feelings_. That is the word I have been trying so desperately to avoid, and I see by your self-satisfied smirk that it is exactly the word you have been waiting for me to say. Fine, Watson, I shall say it, then: My feelings toward Dr. Hooper are, indeed, somewhat possessive in nature. Far too possessive toward a woman with whom I have had such a brief acquaintance. I do not believe in love, as you well know, and I certainly do not believe in love at first sight; however, I will admit to having felt…something…for Dr. Hooper from that first meeting. Admiration, of course, for her pursuit of a field so many would declare not only unfeminine but also rather morbid. Appreciation for her physical attributes, I will admit to as well. And a desire to further enjoy her company you have already witnessed when I invited her to dine with me before we were so rudely interrupted by the explosion in the laboratory.

Dear me. I appear to have gone quite off track when I meant simply to relay to you the circumstances under which Dr. Hooper felt compelled to offer up her strenuous objections to some of my deductions regarding the nature of the recent attacks.

Allow me to continue the narrative as if I were writing up one of our cases, Watson, rather than speaking so ridiculously on the matter. I am not some lovestruck youth, and if this tale does ever make it to publication, I would very much prefer that you not present me in such a manner. Although I see by the mirth you are attempting to hide from me that such wishes will go unanswered.

Very well, then; here is what transpired between myself and Miss Hooper after we left you: I informed her of my belief that she was the intended target of the bomber, she objected, I inquired after her former fiancé, she strenuously denied his possible involvement, I informed her that her taste in men was abominable – which witticism she scathingly decried – and then I…

oOo

“You what?” I asked him, breathless with anticipation as my good friend fell silent.

“I kissed her,” Holmes admitted quietly. He attempted to appear insouciant as he made the confession, but there was a tightness about his lips and the corners of his eyes that belied his apparent unconcern at this confession.

“You kissed her…on the cheek?” I asked; Holmes had done so the day before, and it had not resulted in such coolness on Dr. Hooper’s part.

He favored me with a frown and rummaged about in his pockets for his pipe and lucifers. “Don’t be obtuse, Watson; you’ve already witnessed the lady’s reaction to such a kiss. No, I kissed her on the lips. I took her into my arms, a woman whose acquaintance I have only recently made, and kissed her with a warmth and fervor normally reserved for affianced or married couples, at least in polite society.”

He retained a perfect poker-face as he related this fact to me, while I am afraid I gaped and stared worse than any stage comedian. “How did she react?” I finally asked. “I mean, obviously not well considering her coolness toward you at my home, but…”

“She slapped me, quite smartly, across the left cheek,” Holmes replied, but now there was a glint of deviltry in his eyes and voice as he added, “However, not before returning the kiss and placing her hands on my shoulders. A very encouraging reaction, in my opinion, in spite of the slap that followed it and the silence that met my every attempt at conversation from that point until we returned to your home and were greeted by Mary, after retrieving Dr. Hooper’s belongings.” He glanced over at me. “You opinion in this matter, John, would be greatly appreciated. How should I proceed, what is your recommendation in this matter?”

I gaped at him anew, stunned that Holmes would solicit my opinion in anything, let alone matters of the heart. An organ, which I somewhat tartly reminded him, he had always claimed not to possess!

“Yes, yes, as you say,” he replied impatiently, waving off my words in his usual dismissive manner. “That, however, was in the past. I find myself in the unique position of having not the faintest clue how to proceed when it comes to the young lady; she returned my kiss, then rebuffed me and refuses to allow me to offer either an apology or an explanation – not,” he interrupted himself with a scowl, “that I have either readily to hand to give her.”

“You don’t know why you kissed her?” I asked, eager to delve into this matter. Holmes so rarely bowed to anyone’s expertise outside his own, that I found myself reacting, somewhat to my chagrin, like a child eager for his gifts on Christmas Day. Nor could I resist teasing my friend a little as I said, “Surely that should be obvious, even to you!”

His scowl deepened. “Clearly I have erred in discussing this matter with you, Watson. Pray forget I said anything at all. I overstepped with Dr. Hooper and it shall not happen again. We shall solve her mystery, bring the culprit to justice, and part ways. Once she leaves your residence, we shall likely never see one another again.”

With that, he closed his eyes, folded his arms across his chest, and attempted to ignore me.

I, however, was of no mind to be ignored. Certainly not after so remarkable a series of statements. “You are attracted to her,” I announced loudly. “You wish to get to know her better, rather than simply deducing her life from her clothing and accent and the small signs that you read on other people. She intrigues you much as a certain other woman of our acquaintance once intrigued you; you’ve already said as much, so it is too late to deny it,” I added swiftly as Holmes opened one eye and resumed scowling at me. “You asked for my advice, and I will therefore tender it to you thusly: Apologize for kissing her, tell her you allowed your feelings to overcome your good manners – don’t interrupt, Holmes!” I added severely, as he opened his mouth to do that very thing. “You asked, and you shall listen!”

I waited a brief moment to see how he would react; he slowly closed his mouth, setting it into a thin, stubborn line, but his gaze remained fixed on me, and I was content that he was actually listening, and so continued my advice. “Tell her your feelings overcame your good manners,” I repeated slowly. “Assure her it will not happen again…and then put those famous powers of observation to work to see how she reacts to those words. If, as I suspect, the lady returns your feelings in some measure – or at least is interested in you in a romantic sense – then you will surely be able to read that much. Only try not to insult her, man!” I remonstrated. “Telling a lady she has abominable taste in men will not endear you to her, no matter how true!”

“Her former fiancé was James Moriarty.”

I fell utterly silent at that declaration, unable to find the words to express my dismay and shock. Holmes, however, continued to speak as he immediately recognized my misapprehension. “James Moriarty the younger, rather than the elder. Two brothers born nearly fifteen years apart and given the same Christian name by their parents, although with different middle names. The Moriarty we encountered – and who is, I can reassure you, most certainly dead – was James Arthur Moriarty; Dr. Hooper’s ex-fiancé is James Thomas Moriarty, although he has ceased using either his first or his surname in favor of calling himself simply Thomas Harrison, after his mother’s maiden name.”

“Are you certain this Robert Harrison is Moriarty’s brother?” I asked, sudden anxiety speeding my heart. Holmes had related Moriarty the elder’s declaration that neither myself nor Mary were off-limits in the war he fought against Holmes; did the younger brother harbor the same animosity? “Are my wife and child in danger, Holmes?” I demanded, angered that my friend had not begun this conversation with such damning information. I was concerned for Dr. Hooper’s safety, of course, but I would be a liar were I to say I was more concerned for her than for my own family’s well-being. In truth, I feared I would throw her into an active volcano, were such a thing available, if it meant keeping my Mary and our unborn child safe.

Holmes, sensing my agitation, hastened to reassure me. “Don’t worry, John; I promise, Mary and the baby will be quite safe. Lestrade’s men should be in place as well as my own Baker Street Irregulars, and I assure you I would never have brought Dr. Hooper to your home if I had any concerns whatsoever that by doing so I would draw Mary into the line of fire. You have my most solemn vow on that.”

I relaxed somewhat at these reassurances, although I knew I would never be fully relieved until this matter had been brought to a hasty conclusion, and told Holmes so in no uncertain terms.

“Of course,” he agreed as the cab finally arrived at Baker Street. He jumped out, paid the cabbie, and hurried into the building, while I followed swiftly on his heels.

My last thought as I entered my former residence was that it might be best if Mary and Dr. Hooper were to be removed to a safe house, or sent on a journey to the Continent until this had all blown over; then, irony upon ironies, I was knocked off my feet as an explosion ripped through Sherlock’s flat, and unconsciousness soon fell upon me.


	6. A Most Civilized Discussion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously: My last thought as I entered my former residence was that it might be best if Mary and Dr. Hooper were to be removed to a safe house, or sent on a journey to the Continent until this had all blown over; then, irony upon ironies, I was knocked off my feet as an explosion ripped through Sherlock’s flat, and unconsciousness soon fell upon me.

“John! John, can you hear me? John!”

It was to the sound of Holmes frantically calling my name that I reawakened, to find myself lying on the floor covered in dust and debris – and thankfully unharmed but for the bump on the back of my head and some slight bruises I would later discover. Holmes was bleeding profusely from a cut on his forehead, but batted my hands away when I would have attempted to staunch the flow. “Never mind that, I’m fine, how are you? How badly are you injured?”

I reassured him as best I could through the ringing in my ears, and attempted to rise. He helped me to my feet, and the pair of us stood unsteadily looking at one another with equal expressions of grim determination on our faces. Mrs. Hudson’s voice came up the stairs, anxious and fretful, and Holmes shouted down to her that we were fine. “The explosion was meant as a warning rather than an attempt to actually kill us, Watson,” he said, a conclusion which I had already reached on my own. “I suppose we should be thankful that we have such a courteous and single-minded bomber on our hands; clearly he wishes only to ensure the death of Dr. Hooper, with as little collateral damage as possible.”

“Else we would be having this discussion in the afterlife,” I agreed, fumbling in my pocket for my handkerchief and pressing it on Holmes. He took it and absently applied it to his forehead, then began pacing through the debris now strewn about the sitting room. “Holmes, we should return at once to be certain that Mary and Dr. Hooper are…”

“Yes,” he agreed immediately without arguing, as I half-expected him to. “We must return to your home at once, John.”

His use of my first name twisted my gut; it meant that he was deeply worried about the wellbeing of my dear wife and Dr. Hooper. Without another word we bounded down the stairs, Holmes shouting for Mrs. Hudson to allow the police and fire fighters entry as soon as they made an appearance, brushing aside her questions as he ran to the kerb and hailed a passing taxi. I took a moment to reassure Mrs. Hudson that she was in no danger at the moment, but suggested that perhaps a visit to her sister in Leeds might be in order until Holmes had resolved the case. 

I heard her anxious voice calling after us to be careful, then the cab had stopped and Holmes and I were inside. We were a disreputable sight, to be sure, but Holmes knew many of the cabbies in London, especially those whose custom brought them frequently to Baker Street, and apparently the driver was one of those, as Holmes called him ‘Bert’ as he exhorted him to hurry to my practice on Harley Street.

A tense twenty minute ride followed, with both Holmes and I remaining silent as we silently urged the horses to go faster, and glowered out our respective windows when traffic slowed us down. When we arrived we exited the hack, Holmes tossing the driver the fare and what was likely to be a hefty tip, as the cab remained by the kerb as we hurried for the front door.

The closer we arrived to my home, the uneasier I became; surely Lestrade’s men should have accosted us by now, two ragged, filthy figures running toward a home meant to be under police surveillance, but no such attempts were made, and my mounting concern became a near-frenzy of panic. It was not one whit alleviated when Holmes reached the front door and turned the knob without impediment; it should have been locked, and we traded significant looks as he pushed the door open, dropping low as he rushed inside. I groped in my pocket for my pistol, holding it at the ready as I followed, bracing myself for whatever scene was about to greet my eyes.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, right on time!” The cheerful greeting came from the throat of a man I didn’t recognize, although the gun he was holding to my Mary’s head was enough to identify him to my horrified eyes. “Please, do be seated,” he said courteously, as if we were welcome visitors to his home. Mary seemed calm, her mouth set in a tight line and her eyes clear and steady on mine with no signs of tears, and I took comfort in knowing that she would never allow the villain holding her hostage to see her falling apart, no matter how terrified she must be inside. Her hands were clasped at her waist, and my own clenched into fists as I lowered my weapon without being ordered to do so. I placed it carefully on the floor by my feet, then stepped away, never losing eye contact with my beloved wife as I did so.

“Dr. Watson is a sensible man,” the stranger – Thomas Harrison? – said approvingly as he turned his attention to Holmes. “I believe you might wish to show the same common sense, Mr. Holmes, and place your own weapon – yes, I see it in the pocket of your jacket – next to his. And then,” he added as Holmes reluctantly reached into his pocket and retrieved his pistol, “we’ll have a nice, civilized chat about where exactly you’ve hidden Dr. Hooper.”

I couldn’t help a start of surprise; surely Dr. Hooper wouldn’t have abandoned my wife and unborn child in order to save her own life? But no, Mary gave me a subtle shake of her head and a small smile; if she felt betrayed I would recognize it in her expression. Therefore if Dr. Hooper was no longer in my home, it wasn’t because she’d fled the madman now holding Mary hostage.

“First things first,” Holmes said, casually seating himself in the armchair facing my wife and her captor. I grit my teeth but said nothing, knowing that Holmes was far from the emotionless mask he was currently wearing. Inside I had no doubts that he was as anxious and unhappy as I was at the situation we faced. “I believe introductions are in order; after all, you’ve made free of Watson’s home after having first laid waste to my own. Is it James Thomas Moriarty to whom I am addressing myself at the moment?”

The villain nodded his head and smiled, a tight, humorless smile that showed none of his teeth. “I am, indeed, Professor James Moriarty’s younger brother. At this time, as I am sure you are aware, I simply employ the name Thomas Harrison after my mother. She was most unhappy with our father for choosing to name both his sons after himself, and always made sure to address me by my middle name when he was not around to disapprove.”

“And may I ask why, after separating yourself from your brother, you have now chosen to step into his boots and take up a life of crime? Although you are an expert bomb-maker,” Holmes added when the other man seemed about to speak, “it is obvious you learned your skills not from criminal activities, but from a military source. One Colonel Sebastian Moran, perhaps?”

Thomas Harrison – or rather, Moriarty – showed his teeth in what amounted more to a grimace than a grin. “I have been in touch with the good Colonel since my brother’s unfortunate demise,” he allowed. “But as you have also deduced, I have no interest in taking up where James left off. The only reason I have for learning the art of designing and deploying explosives is strictly personal – I wish to rid the world of Dr. Molly Hooper in as many pieces as possible.”

Ah, there it was, the glint of madness, the obsession I’d been half-expecting to see and hear in his voice and face all along. The veneer of civilization was stripped away, revealing the beast below the surface. His grip on Mary’s arm tightened; she gave an involuntary wince and he ground the barrel of the gun against her temple, causing her to gasp as he returned his attention to her. “Dear Mrs. Watson, I pray you do not try to distract me,” he said through gritted teeth, “else my fingers might slip and you and your little one meet with an unfortunate demise.”

I had moved forward a step, but Moriarty’s cold gaze met mine and I subsided with reluctance, trusting to Holmes to take the lead in removing my wife from the madman’s grasp.

With his next words, he proved my faith in him, although hardly in a manner I could have foreseen. “If you can reassure me that no other targets will suffer your depredations, then I will take you to Dr. Hooper. Right now, this very moment. As long as you release Mrs. Watson to her husband and take me in her stead as your hostage,” he added coolly.

Moriarty smiled, the delighted smile of a child who has received a long-coveted toy. “You have that assurance, Mr. Holmes, although I am certain you have already worked out my disinterest in causing lasting harm to anyone other than that traitorous bitch to whom I was briefly engaged; surely your own encounter with my work told you that!”

Holmes nodded; I thought to protest, uncertain if he was handing himself over to Moriarty while unsure of Dr. Hooper’s actual whereabouts, but kept silent, damning myself for my weakness. Holmes, however, had proven himself more than capable of removing himself from dire circumstances, whereas Mary and the baby needed to be free of further danger as quickly as possible. The knowing look and brief smile my friend gave me told me he understood my dilemma and held nothing against me.

“Watson the married man,” he murmured as he rose to his feet, and with those words I also understood where Dr. Hooper was – and what my role was to be in securing her safety. I felt my self-loathing melting away in that moment, and simply waited for Mary’s release with every appearance of a man who is focused solely on his family’s safety.

The exchange was made, and Holmes was marched away through the back door with the gun firmly lodged in the middle of his back, while I embraced Mary and murmured endearments and questions regarding her health into her ears.

As soon as we were alone, she pulled herself from my arms and gazed at me knowingly. “You and Sherlock have some sort of plan in place, I take it? I know that must have been a code, what he said before he left,” she added, proving yet again just how admirable and intelligent a woman I had married. “And you are both as unharmed as you seem to be, in spite of your alarming appearance? I knew of the bombing,” she added in the same breath, her worry for me brimming in her eyes. “Mr. Moriarty took a great deal of delight in describing his plans to, as he put it, ‘catch your attention’.”

I nodded and reassured her further, then swept her into my arms for a final kiss. “Lestrade’s men?” I asked when I was able to tear myself from her.

“Unconscious and tied up in the cellar along with the maid and cook,” Mary replied succinctly. “I shall release them and we shall all leave the premises, the servants to their own homes and myself along with the guards to Scotland Yard,” she announced. “As for Dr. Hooper, apparently she and Sherlock concocted a scheme to be implemented as soon as you’d left her here, wherein I and the guards would act as decoys to keep Moriarty’s attention focused on the wrong location. I do not believe he expected him to manage to overpower Lestrade’s men,” she hastened to add as I felt anger suffuse my features, “or else he never would have done so. You know that, John; he and I have not always seen eye to eye, but you know he would never deliberately put me or our child in harm’s way.”

I knew no such thing, but allowed her words to placate me, at least for the moment. Once the current crisis had been averted, however, he and I were going to have words. “I must go to where he’s hidden Dr. Hooper, and alert Lestrade so that he can have his men in place while Sherlock leads Mr. Moriarty on a merry chase around London,” I announced. Mary persuaded me to wait just long enough to don a clean coat and wash the worst of the soot from my face, and then I was off to fetch Dr. Hooper from her hiding place in the storm drains beneath Parliament.


	7. Rescue and Reclamation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to allthebellsinvenice for reading the first part of this chapter over and reassuring me that I hadn't lapsed into melodrama. And thanks as always to my readers, followers and reviewers! This tale is drawing to a close soon, hope you've enjoyed the ride!

_Previously:_

_As soon as we were alone, she pulled herself from my arms and gazed at me knowingly. “You and Sherlock have some sort of plan in place, I take it? I know that must have been a code, what he said before he left,” she added, proving yet again just how admirable and intelligent a woman I had married. “And you are both as unharmed as you seem to be, in spite of your alarming appearance? I knew of the bombing,” she added in the same breath, her worry for me brimming in her eyes. “Mr. Moriarty took a great deal of delight in describing his plans to, as he put it, ‘catch your attention’.”_

_I nodded and reassured her further, then swept her into my arms for a final kiss. “Lestrade’s men?” I asked when I was able to tear myself from her._

_“Unconscious and tied up in the cellar along with the maid and cook,” Mary replied succinctly. “I shall release them and we shall all leave the premises, the servants to their own homes and myself along with the guards to Scotland Yard,” she announced. “As for Dr. Hooper, apparently she and Sherlock concocted a scheme to be implemented as soon as you’d left her here, wherein I and the guards would act as decoys to keep Moriarty’s attention focused on the wrong location. I do not believe he expected him to manage to overpower Lestrade’s men,” she hastened to add as I felt anger suffuse my features, “or else he never would have done so. You know that, John; he and I have not always seen eye to eye, but you know he would never deliberately put me or our child in harm’s way.”_

_I knew no such thing, but allowed her words to placate me, at least for the moment. Once the current crisis had been averted, however, he and I were going to have words. “I must go to where he’s hidden Dr. Hooper, and alert Lestrade so that he can have his men in place while Sherlock leads Mr. Moriarty on a merry chase around London,” I announced. Mary persuaded me to wait just long enough to don a clean coat and wash the worst of the soot from my face, and then I was off to fetch Dr. Hooper from her hiding place in the storm drains beneath Parliament._

 

Holmes and I had worked out the code after our last adventure together, when Moriarty had come out of the shadows to directly confront my friend and, albeit temporarily, effect his death. If Holmes ever were to say to me ‘Watson, the married man’ then I should know that something – or, in this case someone – was waiting for me in the drains beneath Parliament, where Lord Blackwood had set his diabolical device meant to kill hundreds of lawmakers in order to further his scheme to take over England. The murderous contraption had been dismantled and carted away by Holmes’ elder brother, Mycroft, to some undisclosed location for further study. Although I felt there were enough devices of war out there as it was, I could understand the government’s need to seek out ways to nullify such if they were to be used against us.

Such musings occupied my mind while I engaged a hack and then one of Holmes’ river rat acquaintances to bring me to my destination and extract Doctor Hooper from her hiding place. She had been instructed to reveal herself only if I arrived unaccompanied, and I was grateful that the boat’s owner had refused to leave his vessel and insisted he would await my and the young lady’s arrival. 

“Doctor Watson,” the lady in question greeted me when I announced my presence and several minutes had passed in silence before she came into view. “Forgive the skullduggery, but Mr. Holmes insisted…”

I waved away her apologies, relieved to see that she was, indeed, none the worse for wear. “And your wife, is she well?” she asked anxiously as I explained what had happened after Holmes had sent her to this noxious sewer to await further developments. I was most impressed that the lady had gone willingly, and unaccompanied by anyone other than the self-same boatman who had delivered me here to retrieve her. Nor did she show any signs of anxiety at either her location – not so different from her usual place in the morgue, granted – or at having been left alone whilst a madman searched her out in order to kill her. Her pluck and determination were well worthy of admiration, and if I had not already witnessed Holmes’ interest in her, I would have undoubtedly engaged my dear wife to assist me in some scheme to throw them together! 

We returned to the boat without incident, each filling the other in on our time apart. Molly’s sense of humor tended somewhat to the morbid, which personality quirk would no doubt further add to her appeal as far as my moody, unconventional friend was concerned.

Once we were on the river and headed back to the shore where I had first boarded the small vessel, however, my thoughts were driven away from such pleasant trivialities and back to the brutal reality we still faced. Holmes had deliberately put himself in harm’s way in order to decoy James Moriarty the younger away from Mary and Doctor Hooper. And even though the good doctor had informed of the location to which Holmes intended to eventually bring the madman – London Bridge, still not entirely constructed and the site of the demise of the late, unlamented Lord Blackwood – I still held grave reservations as to the eventual outcome of my friend’s predicament.

I did not express those reservations aloud, of course, not wishing to further alarm the lady, but was forced to remonstrate with her when she voiced her determination to accompany me to the site of the inevitable confrontation. “Miss Hooper!” I exclaimed, strong emotion causing me to temporarily neglect the use of her proper title. “Surely you have no desire to place yourself anywhere near your former fiancé, when we have all gone to so much trouble to keep you away from him!”

“I cannot sit idly by and wait for you or Mr. Holmes – or worse, some random policeman! – to tell me the outcome of this meeting!” she replied with a great deal of spirit, her brown eyes flashing with annoyance in a way that struck me as exceedingly familiar. Holmes had looked at me thus many times – and I daresay he’d seen the same look in my own eyes on far more occasions. “It directly affects me, Doctor Watson,” she continued, placing a slight but noticeable emphasis on my title, an indirect chastisement that I well deserved. “And perhaps if he sees me, then Thomas – I mean James – might make some slight error that will give you and Mr. Holmes some small advantage. After all,” she concluded, driving her point home with a sad smile, “it is me and me alone he seeks; he might be an attempted murderer, but thus far he has been scrupulous in not causing any secondary casualties in his single-minded pursuit of my humble self.”

I could find little in her words to dispute, and so I bowed to the inevitable – at least for the moment. I silently vowed to find a moment to put a word in Lestrade’s ear when we reached Scotland Yard, imploring the man detain Doctor Hooper with my wife while we hastened to reach London Bridge before Holmes and his captor arrived.

We arrived without incident, Doctor Hooper springing to the pavement from the cab while I paid the driver, too impatient to wait for me to hand her down as propriety demanded. I understood her haste, having felt it myself, along with anxiety that I see for myself that Mary had safely arrived while I was away. Upon announcing ourselves at the front desk, we were immediately ushered to Lestrade’s cramped, dingy office, where he waited impatiently by the door for our arrival. I ignored him, however, in favor of rushing to my wife’s side and taking both her hands in mine when I saw her seated in one of the two small chairs in front of the inspector’s desk.

“I am well, John,” she said with a smile as she squeezed my hands before releasing them. “Now inform the inspector of Mr. Holmes’ whereabouts so that you may seize this diabolical bomber and prevent him from doing further damage!” Her gaze drifted over my shoulder, and I understood her to be looking at Doctor Hooper. 

“Yes, Watson, do get on with it,” Lestrade said impatiently. However, when I attempted to first extricate our two selves from his office in order to speak with him in private, I was foiled by both my wife and Doctor Hooper exclaiming at us not to leave them in the dark.

“This directly affects me, Inspector, as I have already pointed out to Doctor Watson,” the young lady said, while my wife nodded vigorous agreement. I sensed that the two of them had already formed what might eventually become a formidable bond of friendship between them, and knew my own desires in this matter to have been entirely discounted by their show of unity. 

Lestrade muttered something under his breath about a showdown involving Holmes being no place for a woman, to which both ladies bristled – and I received the distinct and uncomfortable impression that, had it not been for my wife’s delicate state, she would have insisted on joining us as well!

I therefore explained to Lestrade where Holmes would be waiting for us, but found myself at a loss when Lestrade pressed me on the timing of the matter. I turned to Doctor Hooper, who met me with a cool look, and was given to understand that she would say nothing unless we allowed her to accompany us. “Very well, Miss – that is, Doctor Hooper,” Lestrade finally grumbled. “You may join us as long as you and Doctor Watson remain out of the way and let us do our blasted jobs!” He seemed to immediately regret the inadvertent use of a word that might be expected to discommode the young lady in question, but she brushed it off as if it were of no consequence, merely relaying the information that Mr. Holmes and Mr. Moriarty would arrive at the appointed place at dusk – a mere hour from now.

Upon receiving that piece of intelligence, Lestrade sprang into action, shouting for his sergeant to gather the needed manpower and rushing about in preparation for the journey – and the upcoming confrontation at the bridge. “We must be prepared for anything,” I warned Doctor Hooper, in a futile attempt to yet dissuade her from accompanying us. “He might have weapons other than the pistol he used to hold my wife and Holmes hostage, and of course he has accomplices, else he could never have taken out Lestrade’s men so swiftly.”

She nodded, eyes clear and chin firm, with no sign of womanish weakness, as some of my less enlightened brethren might have worded it. “I am prepared for anything that might come, Doctor Watson,” she said. “In his desperation, I know that Thomas – James – might very well eschew the more humane tactics he has thus far displayed, and it might very well come down to…well, if he threatens larger violence, then I will do what I must to stop him. Just as you and Mr. Holmes and the police are prepared to do.”

With that speech Lestrade burst back into the room, shouting for us to come along if we did not wish to be left behind. Sparing only a moment to press a farewell kiss to my dear Mary’s cheek, I hastened from the room, hard on Doctor’s Hooper’s heels.

oOo

When we arrived at London Bridge nearly three-quarters of an hour later I was wild with impatience, although I did my best to keep from transmitting my tension to Doctor Hooper. The lady of course was far from easy in her mind, and much as it chafed my gentlemanly instincts to allow her to accompany me on this journey, what I had seen of her thus far gave me to understand that further remonstrations for her to remain safely aside would be met with disdain.

“I know you think I am foolish for placing myself in harm’s way after Mr. Holmes has worked so hard in order to protect me, Doctor Watson,” Doctor Hooper said quietly as we pulled up to our destination, “but pray do not think ill of me for doing so. I could no more sit idly by under these circumstances than you could.” She sat very straight, her hands clasped tightly on her lap, and I could do nothing but admire her spirit and determination yet again. 

“I cannot convince you to wait here, in the conveyance Inspector Lestrade has provided?” I asked, knowing what response I would receive even as I did so.

She shook her head and offered me a small smile. “No, Doctor Watson, you cannot.” The carriage jolted to a halt, and she peered out the window. “We’ve arrived. I only pray we’ve done so in time to foil my former fiancé’s plans. I would not be able to forgive myself should Mr. Holmes come to any harm at his hands.”

I aided her from the carriage, and we joined Lestrade’s gathered forces as he quietly dispersed his men into their various hiding places. It seemed likely that Holmes’ ultimate destination would be the very same place where he last confronted Lord Blackwood, but I hoped that we had arrived in time to prevent their ascent to that dangerous locale.

Sure enough, not ten minutes after Doctor Hooper and I had ensconced ourselves behind an unfinished abutment, the sound of horse’s hooves and the creaking wheels of some kind of conveyance met our ears. As the carriage came to a stop, I was startled to feel Doctor Hooper running past me, not stopping until she stood just in front of the two horses, facing the driver. I cursed and made to go after her, but stopped when I saw the doors to the carriage open, one side discharging a stranger, but the other revealing the face and figure of my good friend Sherlock Holmes. Visible proof that he was yet living and unharmed served to slow my racing heart somewhat, but it only began pounding again at the sight of the other man hurrying to Doctor Hooper’s side and pulling her roughly to him.

“So, Molly, you’re here, just as Mr. Holmes said you would be. How…extraordinary,” the man drawled, eyes darting about. I eased back into concealment, and so lost my line of sight and had to rely solely on my ears for the remainder of the confrontation.

“Yes, I am here, Thomas,” she replied, her voice as steady and calm as it had been while in the carriage. “You must give your word that no one else will come to harm, promise me!”

He laughed, a low, bitter laugh that sent a chill up my spine and had me easing my weapon out of my pocket. “Promise you?” he repeated mockingly. “Just as you promised me that you would become my wife? But you broke that promise, Molly, and my heart as well. So why should I make any promises to you?”

“Because you have worked very hard to prove to myself and the rest of the world that you are not your brother.” That was Holmes, sounding as relaxed as if he were sitting at Baker Street, sipping tea with Mrs. Hudson. “To change tactics now, when you’ve striven not to bring harm to anyone other than Miss Hooper, would be perhaps an indication that you are, indeed, as unhinged as he was.”

“It’s Doctor Hooper, do not misuse her title!” Moriarty snarled. I risked another look, and saw that he now faced Holmes, his back to me, while the driver had pulled out a pistol which he held aimed at my friend. Moriarty held no weapon of his own that I could see, but had taken tight told of Doctor Hooper’s arm, pulling her snugly to his side as he glared at Holmes. I hesitated to shoot at him because of her proximity, and because I could not be certain that he held a gun in the hand hidden from my view. And if I took the shot at Moriarty, would the driver then gun down my friend? And where were Lestrade and his men in all this?

The answer to that last question was answered when Holmes next spoke. “I presume the men you had in place awaiting our arrival are busy dealing with Inspector Lestrade and his men at the moment, Mr. Moriarty – Oh, I do beg your pardon, Mr. Harrison,” he corrected himself with a sardonic lift of the lips. “I had quite forgotten your request that I address you by the name you have assumed rather than the one bequeathed to you at birth.”

Moriarty – or Harrison, although I cared not one whit for how he preferred to be addressed! – seemed likely to lunge at Holmes in a rage, but checked himself. “You cannot incite my anger, Mr. Holmes,” he said, although to my ears it sounded as if he were speaking through clenched teeth, belying his words even as he spoke them. “Nor can you alter my plans, even with the presence of the police here. My dear Molly will be taken to the highest point on this structure, where I have already concealed enough explosives to bring about not only her own demise, but yours as well. Yes, I have changed my mind,” he gloated in answer to Holmes’ (to my eyes at least) exaggerated expression of alarm. “I find myself in the unique position of not only avenging myself, but my elder brother as well, with one singular act. And then I shall vanish from London, to live a quiet life on the Continent under an identity I have already set up and that is entirely unknown to either you or the police.”

Doctor Hooper had remained very still during all of this, aside from starting a bit when her former fiancé described his ultimate plans for disposing of her and Holmes. I was just beginning to think I should act in spite of the possibility that Moriarty was pressing a gun to her side, when two things happened nearly simultaneously: Doctor Hooper collapsed to the ground in what I presumed at the time was a dead faint, bringing the unsuspecting Moriarty down with her, and Holmes moved his arm in an odd fashion that I later recognized as that of a man flinging a bladed weapon. This was proven to be the fact when the driver of the carriage, who had been briefly distracted by the sight and sound of his employer, gave a gurgling cry, stood up and pawed at the knife-blade now protruding from his throat, and toppled over the side of the carriage seat and onto the pavement, startling the two horses into sidestepping away from his twitching form. 

The sound of a scuffle from somewhere behind me caused me to turn around, gun at the ready, only to find myself face to face with Inspector Lestrade, who was wrestling one of Moriarty’s thugs into submission. When the man let swing a wild blow that threatened to free him the inspector’s grasp, I sprang forward and laid him flat with a blow from the butt of my pistol on the back of his head. Lestrade thanked me with a nod and a grunt, and busied himself with cuffing the now-unconscious prisoner. “You all right over there, Holmes?” he shouted, and I turned back to see what had transpired during the scuffle.

"Perfectly fine, Inspector."

I was astounded to see my friend calmly standing over Moriarty’s prone form whilst Doctor Hooper knelt astride him, just as calmly tying his hands together with what I later learned was Holmes’ cravat. She had also somehow contrived to render him unconscious during her faux-faint, and I could see a small, proud smile hovering about Holmes’ mouth as he watched her.

Within minutes it was over; the remainder of Moriarty’s men had either been captured or fled, and there were no casualties on either side aside from the unfortunate driver. However, since he had clearly intended to use the pistol in his hands, no recriminations were laid at Holmes’ feet for the act. Especially after Doctor Hooper insisted that he had done it to save her life, gazing so earnestly into Lestrade’s flustered face that he could nothing more than mumble his acceptance of her words.

And with that, the entire sorry chapter of the last of the Moriarty brothers came to an end.


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so we've reached the end of this epic, thanks for hanging around for the whole story! A special thank you to liathwen for betaing for me this chapter, and as always, thank you for the lovely reviews, they make my day!

**Epilogue**

Of course, my tale does not end with that moment; how could it, when I am sure there are many questions my readers are clamoring to hear answered? As I have already introduced Doctor Hooper in this narrative as the woman Holmes would eventually take as his wife, then you already know the answer to the most important question. As for how quickly that marriage took place…well. Holmes has badgered me to allow him to recite the facts of the matter, claiming he cannot trust me not to ‘over-romanticize’ it. So please, enjoy my good friend’s version of what happened next.

**Holmes’ Tale**

Thank you, Watson, for allowing me to tell the story of my proposal and my wife’s eventual acceptance. It is quite good of you, very generous indeed, to allow me to share so intimate a moment with your readers in my words, rather than secondhand through your rather misty lens of unnecessary sentiment. Perhaps next time you could illuminate your readers as to your adventures in treating women’s hysteria?

Returning to the subject at hand, I was, indeed, quite impressed with Doctor Hooper’s comportment during the confrontation with the last of the Moriarty brothers. She caught my meaning when I signaled with my eyes for her to drop to the ground – a quick glance down at her feet and then back up to her face, a slight nod on her part to signify her understanding, and the deed was done, freeing my attention from Moriarty to his lackey as I embedded my blade in his throat.

I should explain two things about this particular moment: I was actually aiming for the unfortunate lackey’s shoulder, intending only to incapacitate his gun hand, and I had no idea that Doctor Hooper would be so quick-witted as to bring Moriarty tumbling to the ground with her in her faux-faint. The former miscalculation admittedly was one that nearly cost me my good graces with Inspector Lestrade, but the latter worked to our advantage quite beautifully.

I am informed by a certain person standing over my shoulder, reading as I commit my version of events – the factual version, the most accurate version – to paper that the latter was not actually a miscalculation. That Moriarty was not brought tumbling to the pavement by an inadvertent action on Doctor Hooper’s part, but deliberately; she tugged at the waist of his trousers as she collapsed in order to ensure that he joined her, even if only momentarily. And I accept this correction, duly chastened as it is, indeed, what I observed. I misspoke, and will attempt not to do so again.

As Doctor Watson has so fatuously noted, I did, indeed, spend some time studying Doctor Hooper as she used my cravat to restrain her tormentor. She had quite coolly and calmly asked me for that article of clothing after the death of Moriarty’s henchman, and I offered it to her without demur or hesitation. Was my gaze admiring, my smile proud, as she made swift work of our mutual foe? Perhaps, although I would classify them as assessing and approving. Doctor Hooper had already proven herself to be a superior woman in every way; to see her so calm and calculating when under duress that would have brought many other women – and men! – to hysterics only raised her in my estimation. I dare say my admiration for her surpasses that of any other woman currently living.

Hmm, apparently I am ‘taking too long to get to the point’. Very well; after Lestrade was convinced to consider my actions during the battle with Moriarty’s henchmen self-defense, I waited for Doctor Hooper to rise to her feet, offering my hand and feeling rather pleased when she accepted it. I took the opportunity to apologize for my uninvited and poorly-timed attempt at physical intimacy, promised that no such intrusions should ever happen without her permission in future…and was astonished and absurdly pleased when she took the opportunity to throw her arms around my neck and kiss me quite, quite thoroughly. 

Lestrade and his men busied themselves with removing the villains from the scene of the almost-crime, although I distinctly heard both sniggering and an under-the-breath comment along the lines of “Look at that, he’s human after all” in Lestrade’s distinctive accent.

I admit to being somewhat lost in the embrace when I heard Watson loudly clearing his throat and felt his hand on my shoulder. “Perhaps you and the young lady might consider concluding the marriage negotiations in private?” he suggested humorously. 

“Watson, the ‘young lady’ is a medical professional, just as you are,” I pointed out. “Perhaps if you were to remember to use her title, as is her well-earned right, then you might make less of an ass of yourself in future.”

“Mr. Holmes, do kindly shut up,” Doctor Hooper interrupted me. She did not, however, release her hold on me, slipping her arm through mine and leaning her head against my shoulder as she smiled up at me. “Unless it is to formally propose, of course, or to ask Doctor Watson to stand up with you at our wedding in…two weeks?”

I was not, as I have been informed by both doctors, rendered speechless by this extraordinary statement; on the contrary, I deliberately maintained my silence as I mentally reviewed my schedule for the next two weeks in order to ascertain my availability for the proposed merger. “Very well,” I finally said, looking down at my newly-minted fiancée. “Two weeks, no more. John, you and Mary will do us the honor of attending, of course?”

He gaped at the two of us as if we had grown an extra head apiece. “I was joking!” he spluttered, while Lestrade shouted with laughter and the remaining constables let out a cheer. Then I kissed my Molly, and we were united in wedlock two weeks later. John stood as my best man and Molly’s friend, Miss Meena Patil stood as her maid of honor. Mrs. Hudson, Mary Watson, Michael Stamford, and Inspector Lestrade as well as my brother Mycroft were the only other guests. I do not pretend to know the future holds for my wife and myself, but I do know this much: no matter what adversity might be thrown our way, we shall surely weather it together.

The End


End file.
